“If I die,” he thought, “they will find it out; but I’m not going to die. No, I shall struggle along in this world a good while yet.” He gave Piotr orders to come to him on important business the next morning directly it was light. Piotr imagined that he wanted to take him to Petersburg with him. Bazarov went late to bed, and all night long he was harassed by disordered dreams. … Madame Odintsov kept appearing in them, now she was his mother, and she was followed by a kitten with black whiskers, and this kitten seemed to be Fenitchka; then Pavel Petrovitch took the shape of a great wood, with which he had yet to fight. Piotr waked him up at four o’clock; he dressed at once, and went out with him.
It was a lovely, fresh morning; tiny flecked clouds hovered overhead in little curls of foam on the pale clear blue; a fine dew lay in drops on the leaves and grass, and sparkled like silver on the spiders’ webs; the damp, dark earth seemed still to keep traces of the rosy dawn; from the whole sky the songs of larks came pouring in showers. Bazarov walked as far as the copse, sat down in the shade at its edge, and only then disclosed to Piotr the nature of the service he expected of him. The refined valet was mortally alarmed; but Bazarov soothed him by the assurance that he would have nothing to do but stand at a distance and look on, and that he would not incur any sort of responsibility. “And meantime,” he added, “only think what an important part you have to play!” Piotr threw up his hands, looked down, and leaned against a birch-tree, looking green with terror.
The road from Maryino skirted the copse; a light dust lay on it, untouched by wheel or foot since the previous day. Bazarov unconsciously stared along this road, picked and gnawed a blade of grass, while he kept repeating to himself, “What a piece of foolery!” The chill of the early morning made him shiver twice. … Piotr looked at him dejectedly, but Bazarov only smiled; he was not afraid.
The tramp of horses’ hoofs was heard along the road. … A peasant came into sight from behind the trees. He was driving before him two horses hobbled together, and as he passed Bazarov he looked at him rather strangely, without touching his cap, which it was easy to see disturbed Piotr, as an unlucky omen. “There’s someone else up early too,” thought Bazarov; “but he at least has got up for work, while we …”
“Fancy the gentleman’s coming,” Piotr faltered suddenly.
Bazarov raised his head and saw Pavel Petrovitch. Dressed in a light check jacket and snow-white trousers, he was walking rapidly along the road; under his arm he carried a box wrapped up in green cloth.
“I beg your pardon, I believe I have kept you waiting,” he observed, bowing first to Bazarov, then to Piotr, whom he treated respectfully at that instant, as representing something in the nature of a second. “I was unwilling to wake my man.”
“It doesn’t matter,” answered Bazarov; “we’ve only just arrived ourselves.”
“Ah! so much the better!” Pavel Petrovitch took a look round. “There’s no one in sight; no one hinders us. We can proceed?”
“Let us proceed.”
“You do not, I presume, desire any fresh explanations?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Would you like to load?” inquired Pavel Petrovitch, taking the pistols out of the box.
“No; you load, and I will measure out the paces. My legs are longer,” added Bazarov with a smile. “One, two, three.”
“Yevgeny Vassilyevitch,” Piotr faltered with an effort (he shaking as though he were in a fever), “say what you like, I am going farther off.”
“Four … five. … Good. Move away, my good fellow, move away; you may get behind a tree even, and stop up your ears, only don’t shut your eyes; and if anyone falls, run and pick him up. Six … seven … eight. …” Bazarov stopped. “Is that enough?” he said, turning to Pavel Petrovitch; “or shall I add two paces more?”
“As you like,” replied the latter, pressing down the second bullet.
“Well, we’ll make it two paces more.” Bazarov drew a line on the ground with the toe of his boot. “There’s the barrier then. By the way, how many paces may each of us go back from the barrier? That’s an important question too. That point was not discussed yesterday.”
“I imagine, ten,” replied Pavel Petrovitch, handing Bazarov both pistols. “Will you be so good as to choose?”
“I will be so good. But, Pavel Petrovitch, you must admit our combat is singular to the point of absurdity. Only look at the countenance of our second.”
“You are disposed to laugh at everything,” answered Pavel Petrovitch. “I acknowledge the strangeness of our duel, but I think it my duty to warn you that I intend to fight seriously. A bon entendeur, salut!”
“Oh! I don’t doubt that we’ve made up our minds to make away with each other; but why not laugh too and unite utile dulci? You talk to me in French, while I talk to you in Latin.”
“I am going to fight in earnest,” repeated Pavel Petrovitch, and he walked off to his place. Bazarov on his side counted off ten paces from the barrier, and stood still.
“Are you ready?” asked Pavel Petrovitch.
“Perfectly.”
“We can approach one another.”
Bazarov moved slowly forward, and Pavel Petrovitch, his left hand thrust in his pocket, walked towards him, gradually raising the muzzle of his pistol. … “He’s aiming straight at my nose,” thought Bazarov, “and doesn’t he blink down it carefully, the ruffian! Not an agreeable sensation
